megfowler.com

Although I wish it was. It’s just not. I’m clearly not that bright, witty, or structured today. It’s more of a “my brain is a narcoleptic snail” day than a “I can turn the world on with a smile!” day. My brains are scattered like ashes upon the wind, and my body? Yeah.

Stupid body.

Anyhow.

In the interests of discovering something more interesting than the crackle-free connections of my sluggish synapses, I’m going to do a brain dump and hope that a decent post will follow. Then I can delete this one in obvious horror and get on with the show.

It’s like a cleanse. Like a detox. Like a dog sticking my head out the window and blowing my ears back. Like writing about nothing at length just because my mom and dad love me and feel compelled to read it, and also Chuck, because he apparently does, too. Though he is neither my mom, nor my dad. He is a Mukiltean.

So, without any further mumbling:

Unrelated and stupid things (well, not all stupid, but unrelated) things I am thinking about right now (in point form, for efficiency.)

1. My fingertips ache.
2. My coffee has cooled somewhat. And when I say this, I mean that a tiny glacier has formed on the surface. Can someone turn the AC down?
3. Is New Orleans going to get nailed again this year? And can the city handle it twice? Why do people go back to nightmares just because they remember how things were pre-nightmare? How bad does it have to get before the memories don’t sustain your desire to follow through with your choice? How much to we have to lose in order to let go?
4. Why, oh why is Larry King still employed?
5. I wish I could write like David Sedaris or Dorothy Parker or Flannery O’Connor.
6. I need a better conditioner for my ends.
7. Why are there so many visitors coming straight here and NOT commenting?
8. How irritated do you have to be at someone to remove a link to their website from your own website?
9. I wonder if I could find running shoes I would like better than the ones I have now? Nothing freaks me out more than running shoe shopping.
10. I have to find some loonies to do my laundry tonight.
11. Will Luongo really help us this season?
12. Is top-notch hyphenated?
13. There are not enough hard-boiled eggs in my life.
14. I think I would like a) a Lush bath bomb bath; b) the perfect white hoodie; c) a pair of pale pink Havaianas; d) a grilled cheese sandwich; e) a bowl of soup.
15. I will make do with a) no bath; b) my black t-shirt with the coffee blotch; c) my black Havaianas where I ripped off the toe part this morning by tripping off a curb; and d) the aforementioned coffee.
16. “Make do” looks stupid.
17. Why is there a perpetually chapped patch on my lip? It’s like a tiny section of sandpaper.
18. I cannot wrap my mind around perpetual hatred. What would need to happen to me to make that seem like a logical, reasonable option? I assume it’s possible (I know my own darkness), but the thought is fairly horrifying. And why do some people — in the midst of hideousness — choose to doggedly seek out peace? They won’t give up trying to improve things around them, while people within the exact same circumstances choose to act out in hate as though it were the only rational option. People from the same streets and families, even. I am fascinated by the psychology of crisis response. Is that weird?
19. I’m tired of listening to talking heads.
20. CNN is getting tabloidy.
21. John Roberts was better when he was JD Roberts.
22. I don’t own any pink clothes anymore.
23. I’ve never been in warm ocean water.
24. I’m a nutbar.
25. This is the last one.

1. Catherine and I will sing along with pretty much anything.
2. Eric really DOES like coffee that much.
3. Snotty waiters don’t affect the taste of good pasta, fortunately.
4. Canadian television: it’s pretty good!
5. When people visit from California, it’s bound to get ten degrees colder and RAIN. Because apparently that’s what they WANTED.

My earbuds broke. Now it sounds like my iPod is playing through a concrete wall — and only in one ear.

I guess there’s nothing wrong with a fresh set of buds, though. Or should I consider something else? Do you know of the perfect headphone — sleek, unobtrusive, high-functioning?

The only thing I can’t handle is the noise-canceling headphone. It freaks me out a little that I would be so immersed in my soundtrack that I might not know a bus is about to run me over, or that someone is yelling, “THERE IS A BEE ON YOUR BACK. A BEE! ON! YOUR! BACK!”

I’m missing the music, though. I really am.

Which lets me know how much I love it.

So.

1. How many hours in a day are you either directly or indirectly listening to music?
2. How often are you in charge of said music?
3. Do you need music as a part of your day?
4. What band and/or solo artist have you been a fan of for the longest period of time?
5. What three albums could you not do without?
6. What’s the last concert you went to?
7. Name two songs your friends/family associate with you?
8. It’s Karaoke Night. Let’s say you’re the karaoke type. What do you sing?
9. If you could sing/play an instrument like anyone else on earth, who would it be?
10. What musical format do you use most often (CDs, mp3s, vinyl, 8-tracks, live instruments, squeezed cats…)
11. Do you own an iPod or mp3 player of some sort?
12. Do you listen to music when you exercise?
13. And finally… dedicate a song to MegFowler.com!

WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN?

Just yesterday, it was like WEDNESDAY, and I was like, SERIOUSLY, I HAVE HALF THE WEEK LEFT TO DO. But now it’s all like, TOMORROW IS FRIDAY, MEG. HURRY UP.

Whoa.

Some updates from this week:

• RIP, LAUNDRY SPIDER. You know the spider that lives in the wall? Near the laundry room? The giant one? The one that looks like a tarantula? The beast of the ages? Yeah. Dead. See, Catherine didn’t believe he was real until he finally showed up when she was home the other night. And lo, I called out to her to come see before I threw a rock at the wall near him (I used to make him go back in the wall so I could pass by without involuntarily shivering and whimpering.) And lo, she did come (from putting together shelves) bearing a hammer. And lo, she did hammer him, probably tired of hearing about his reign of terror in my life. Now his legs are all arranged in a sort of mangled flower pattern on the wall where he made his last stand. Each time I pass by, I think, EW. Yeah, that’s about it. EW.

• COFFEE IS SUPER GOOD. Seriously. I can’t get enough. And ever since Sheryl made up this hideous scenario for QuestFest about coffee being outlawed, I just keep drinking and drinking just in case it happens. Because this is a crazy world we live in. A crazy world where David Hasselhoff is starring in a musical about his life. Where a woman can break up with Ben Affleck and marry Marc Anthony. Or break up with Michael Vartan and marry Ben Affleck. Where Matt Damon marries a bartender. Where Jenny McCarthy and Jim Carrey make out in public. Where Tom Cruise has a baby he won’t show anyone. Where Angelina Jolie has a baby, and a couple months later, her waxen image rests in Madame Tussaud’s. Where someone suggests coffee might be outlawed. There. REIGN IT BACK IN, MEG.

• I’M NEVER TALKING ABOUT OPRAH ON MY BLOG AGAIN. Why? Because I just want to forget. Everyone keeps calling me mean because I flail in her general direction, and I’ll admit that I’m not sure why I’m SO angsty about all things O. I used to watch Oprah when I was younger because she did the most kickass makeovers. I love a good makeover. But ever since Clinton and Stacy and What Not To Wear? I stopped searching. But Oprah has as much right to do her thing and name it after her as I have to do my thing and name it after me. Because, hello, you’re at MegFowler.com. Maybe I should start MEG magazine. And GEM Productions. And invite Tom Cruise to come over and jump around on my couch. Or maybe I’ll just make Eric do it. Because, you know, he’ll be sitting on it in approximately two days. Or jumping. But I think he’s leaving his imaginary baby at home. And Katie Holmes, hopefully.

• EVERYTHING I OWN HAS A STAIN ON IT. Seriously. Because I own four things, having thrown everything else out in a long succession of moves, and I’m really stupid with coffee and salad dressings, and lo and behold, I am now a slovenly, repetitive mess. Which means that all I do is wear tank tops with stains on them and tired yoga pants at home, and flip flops and heaven only knows what to work. I was surrounded by all these gorgeous, elegant women with gorgeous, elegant hair at the salon yesterday, and I was totally intimidated. They were all avant garde and wearing local designers and sharply tailored and I felt like a frump. Until one of the ladies bent over in her super-sheer little white pants with the odd seams and I saw a “Jockey For Her” waistband on her undies. Because I think “Jockey For Her”, other than being an action phrase, is the goofiest underwear on earth. It bunches, droops, sags, and basically looks like the VERY TIGHTY WHITIES WE TELL MEN NOT TO WEAR. I believe in comfort. And I believe in white cotton underwear. But for the love of Pete, CUTE white underwear. And not under white pants. And not with words on your waistband. And not when you are all EDGE EDGE EDGE and DRAMATIC STYLE and I TAKE RISKS but are actually secretly obscuring that you like Jockeys and watching the Lifetime network and eating Donettes. Because I know you do. And your edgy black shirt? With the Donettes? WOULD GET COVERED IN POWDER. Don’t even front.

Here are my random queries for you:

1. What colour underwear are you wearing? (SO SHOCKING AND EDGY!)
2. Name two things you wish you were eating RIGHT NOW.
3. Have you ever killed a spider with a hammer? And do the words BALL PEEN make you giggle?
4. What is your favourite kind of cheese?
5. What one thing do you hate having to spend money on?

But a crap photog with a fresh haircut? Yes.

See? It even looks okay up!

Better photos when I am not perspiring like a glass of soda on a hot day.

Someone once told me that single women hold the monopoly on high expectations.

“Forget what men want. Women are always freaking out about how perfect men want them to be, but most guys are pretty content with a reasonably attractive woman who doesn’t smell bad and can complete a sentence. Women, on the other hand, want some freaky combo of Tom Cruise, Wordsworth, Donald Trump, and Emeril.”

Okay, try and get THAT mental image out of your head.

But seriously, men, do you think that’s true? Are women the true picky consumers in the dating world? I always thought we were a little more advanced in this respect: accepting of all kinds of masculine bodies, charmed by quirks, ready to “learn to love.”

But from my friend’s perspective — and he said it was more true with every year a woman stays single, contrary to conventional wisdom — women want the whole enchilada and a side of guac.

(And another margarita when you get the chance? Thanks.)

I’m not really sure what I think.

I’m obviously a single girl (no hidden husbands, I assure you) at the ripe old age of 32, and I’d like to think that my standards (or whatever you call them) have mellowed over the years. When I was 22, my friends and I all made lists of the Ideal Qualities In Our Perfect Men.

None of their lists looked ANYTHING like the guys they ended up marrying. And they’re all rather deliriously happy. That was enough to educate me about the worth of our “ideals.”

Now I THINK I just want someone kind, bright, funny, and passionate about what he does. Oh, and if he could smell nice?

I dropped the concerns about back hair, masters degrees, height, etc. a long time ago.

But am I secretly harbouring a list of wants I don’t even realize I have?

Am I picky?

It’s food for thought, really. And as far as my friend’s schtick about men not really being all that picky, on that I call bullshit.

But what do you think? Before you got married, if you are married, did you have a list, written or otherwise?

Do your relationships live or die according to your standards? Have they?

And if you had all your standards met at the beginning of a relationship, did it really matter a hill of beans in the end?

Innnnnteresting….

It’s hard to write about grief or sadness without sounding like your whole world is falling apart.

People read the words and project their own experiences on top of yours, like a picture jam in an old-school slide show. Suddenly Uncle Karl and Auntie Betty’s trip to the Adirondacks ends up in the bathtub with the kids.

I don’t know how to explain to you that even when things hurt, hurt, hurt, I’m fine. I go through the day smiling and laughing and dancing to Phil Collins songs in grocery stores and compulsively eating sugar peas out of the fridge, and you probably wouldn’t even know there was anything wrong.

And it’s not fake. I’m not putting it on. There’s something wrong, but it’s not all wrong.

I’ve been All Wrong. I know how that feels. But this isn’t it.

I’m blessed in so many ways with my family, my friends, my home, my work, and I can’t really get away from feeling thankful for those things. Relaxing with friends at a benefit pub night. Talking in silly, high-pitched voices with my roommate. Making fun of my dad on the phone. Looking at the stars from my deck. Slipping pillows into fresh, crisp cases right before I hop into bed. It’s all goodness. It’s all abundance.

I know what I have that few other people have, and that’s comfort. In my world, in my skin. Not always in my skin, but much of the time, enough of the time.

Still, in the midst of that, there is walking through loss, and the sense that my body is not as it should be, that there is pain I’m not used to, and a bit of a haze about what’s next. I mean, I know what’s next. There is the medication, there is the bone scan, there is the long-term planning, there is the prevention. There are the conversations about what has changed, what I must accept.

There is the future of the worst conversation, the one I dreaded right away, where I tell someone I love more than life that I will give them every bit of myself, but that there’s something they need to know, something that isn’t the end of the world but might make certain things we plan for a bit more complicated.

Complicated is what it is. That’s the best word for it. You have to hang on to perspective without diminishing the impact things have on your heart and mind.

And in the midst of hanging on to perspective, you also have to handle how other people deal, too. With their need to help and understand and reach out to you, and also with their ignorance, their cruelty, their insensitivity and arrogance when they think they know something. They think they get it, they say A-HA… and they couldn’t be more wrong.

I want to scream back how much those assumptions hurt, how they wound, how they make me ill in the pit of my stomach, but what’s the point?

People want to believe that they know something. And they don’t want to listen when you tell them they don’t, because that means they’d have to apologize or see you differently — or properly, as the case may be.

And seeing YOU isn’t what they wanted to do in the first place, anyway. They were just trying to see themselves.

Like Uncle Karl and Aunt Betty in bermuda shorts, superimposed on toddlers covered in bubbles. Picture on picture. But turn the lights on and right those slides, buddy.

This pain is mine.

This joy is mine.

This life is mine.

You could ask before you assumed.

If you did ask, you would know: it hurts more late at night than it does in the mornings. I think about it less during the day. The hurt sneaks up on me when I laugh sometimes, and that’s the most shocking thing. I forget about it and then I remember. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t want to overstate it.

And when you said, “At least you’re not dying. You’re not really sick,” all I wanted to do was yell

Since when is dying the only pain that matters?

But I understood what you were trying to say, so I didn’t. I know how it feels to get the words wrong.

I do it every single day.

Because it’s hard to write about grief or sadness without sounding like your whole world is falling apart.

And mine?

Isn’t.

I just read this:

This summer, while she’s on a break from filming her talk show, Winfrey will be “going from village to village to choose the girls” for the girls’ school she’s building in Africa, she tells PEOPLE.

I know I beat this to death, but why does everything she does seem like it comes from a list of “Things To Do So Lots Of People Admire Me Although Tons Of Other People Do These Things And No One Cares or Gives Them Money Or Buys Their Overpriced Magazine.”

There is something to be said, OF COURSE, for the good publicity can do for a cause, and I know when she puts her name on something, it sells. But it leaves so many other deserving people in this giant, O-shaped shadow.

Also, for the love of Pete… why did she have to release a statement indicating that she’s not gay? If anyone but St. Oprah did that, they’d be called a homophobe or a closet case. And I think I’ll start writing blog entries about things I’m not.

1. I am not married.
2. I am not a mother, dammit!
3. I am not an American!
4. I am not a member of the NRA!
5. I am totally NOT Donny Osmond’s ex-lover!
6. I am not the inventor of Velveeta!
7. I am NOT dating Nick Lachey!

Oh yeah — I’m not gay! And neither is Oprah. And even if I were? And she were?

She wouldn’t have a SHOT IN HELL.

Yeah, this.

Is it because I don’t have a book deal? No, no… these girls established a great little niche, which I haven’t really managed to do. I’m all over the place. I support their deal.They both look and dress like girls I could have gone to high school with, and one of them has a funny last name, which makes them seem rather harmless and accessible.

Is it the the American Apparel ad at the top of the page and the thought of their creepy, creepy founder? No, no. That’s a nice shirt, and I can forget about him.

Is it because the rug they’re sitting on is so ugly? No, no… it’s just “modern” and “quirky.”

No, I think it’s because they’re both holding Dell laptops.

Which is the fugliest fug of all.

… at this blog, that is. Which is cool, since I’ve been working on it (properly) since June 8th. And Sheryl reminded me this morning that I haven’t answered the questions from QuestFest 2006. Which should be easy. Because there weren’t a TON of them, which tells me two things:

1. I’ve told you everything already.
2. You assume, if you don’t know it now, I’ll post about it soon.

These are smart assumptions.

Still, some of you chose to humour me with some queries, and here’s where I share…

THE ANSWERS TO QUESTFEST 2006!

1. From Sheryl:

Suppose drinking coffee became hugely unpopular. All the Starbucks went bankrupt, coffee houses started selling fresh juice and herbal teas. The French press was outlawed in Canada. There was tremendous pressure to keep your latte habit to yourself. You tried to give up coffee. You made several attempts, but were unsucessful.

What would you do/tell yourself in order to accept yourself the way you were, and not feel bad about being different? And would you hide your espresso machine when people came to visit?

A: NO. I WOULD NOT HIDE IT. Because I don’t own one.

And I love fresh juices and herbal teas as WELL as my coffee. I have given up coffee before (successfully). But after a while, I just didn’t see the point of being “off the drip”, as it were. In fact, unless you have some sort of weird issue with caffeine or hate the taste of it, I don’t see why anyone should give up coffee at all.

In the event that people shirked it en masse and the French press was outlawed (They’d riot in Paris! Their voice will not be taken away!), however, I’d still drink it, unless the stuff itself was made illegal. Unless you need to take a substance to stay alive, there’s not a lot of sense in getting arrested for taking it. You can argue the legalization of coffee — and I would, annoyingly, to the detriment of all my relationships — but at the end of the day, I can easily get a buzz off of really strong green tea.

Until they day they could arrest me for it, though? 10 cups a day, my dear.

2. From Ashley:

Who is your favorite comedian?

Ah, see, this is an interesting question, because I am SO fickle about comedians. They are like boyfriends. SOMETIMES I think Chappelle is funny, and sometimes, he’s SO annoying. SOMETIMES I think Dane Cook is stupidly hilarious (The bit about couples who don’t like each other is GOLD), but sometimes he’s just stupid. Robin Williams is now funny 10% of the time, and Jerry Seinfeld? Eccch. But the show sometimes made me laugh (when I wasn’t cringing, knowing that the guy I was sitting next to was just looking for the next dumb line to quote.) I think I’d have to say I love Jon Stewart and Eddie Izzard best of all, with a soft spot in my heart for Albert Brooks and Steve Martin (and not in family movies!)

Hmmm… all men.

3. From Holly:

What are you going to call your children, if you have them? And why?

Oooh, Holly! Isabella is my great-grandmother’s name… or was, when she was around. But they called her Bella, which makes me thing of “belly”, which is a good thing to name your child while your child is inside you, but not really for long thereafter. And seeing as I will never be hoisting a baby about in there, I’d call an Isabella “Ella” for short. But this is so past the point, isn’t it?

I’m not terribly into trendy or hard-to-spell names, partly as a girl who had a name no one could ever spell (Meaghan. Not Megan or Meegan or Meagan or Meghan. Or “Me Again”, for that matter), and partly because I just tend to love beautiful old ones… the kinds of names that get passed down over time through families.

Unfortunately, amazing women though they were and are, the names of my mother and grandmothers aren’t quite what I was thinking of (although I love them dearly, so don’t get all up in my tree, girls): Judy, Willa, Ruth, Florence, Jessie, Mabel (and Isabella, but we covered her already.) My aunts are Colleen, Carolyn, Kathleen, and Gwenneth, all of which are also nice but not really what I had in mind (although I love the Irishness of Kathleen.)

My friends have some great names, but I have so many great friends, I’d be scared to name my child after one and offend all the others. Not to mention that so many of them have had kids now, and I don’t want to incur any wrath by doubling up. That eliminates a TON of names, including my former best picks Lily, Emma, Olivia, and Madeleine. But dammit, you can’t take them ALL away from me.

So: Kate (or Cate), Sophia (Sophie), Evie, and Ava. Second names are where I could use my original picks again… and the name Sophia Madeleine makes me dippy.

Can’t you picture me hoisting a little Sophie around? These hips were made for carrying babies… like, on them.

For boys? Everyone doubles up here. I just don’t care! I’ll name them whatever I feel like naming them! So there!

I want a name my kid can shorten into something cool when he’s older and trying to disassociate himself from me: Joshua (Josh), Jacob (Jake), Nicholas (Nick), or Matthew (Matt).

For his second name, something family-related. Which brings up Reid, William, Alexander, George, Hugh, Sean, Campbell, or perhaps Oscar.

All of this can go by the wayside when I’m making this decision with someone else, which will inevitably be the case…

4. From Mary:

Why (if I may dredge up some horrible memory) are you scared of clowns?

If you ever come to DC, would you like to go to a Caps game?

I am always up for a hockey game! Always! Name the time and place! Except the NY Rangers! At which point I would have to claw out my eyes!

And the clowns. See, you’re a clown, so you’re making me tread really carefully here. Let’s just say that Stephen King’s IT, Poltergeist, John Wayne Gacy, and A Clockwork Orange (Huh? I know. Not clown-related, but I think of that movie when I think of clowns) have combined to give me a morbid fear of anyone in clown makeup. And the way they stuff themselves into little cars? Dude. Freaky.

5. From Terrell:

How did you meet your roommate? Is she a long-time friend? Do you prefer to live alone or with people?

What would you recommend people do in Vancouver if they only have a day or two? Anything else in that general area of Canada that you love doing?

Whoa! Questions galore!
Catherine and I met in 2002 when I hired her to work for me as the director of a youth mentoring program at the camp I used to run. We hit it off like MAD from the very beginning, and 4 years of bonding later, we ended up moving into our new spot together. We’re good little roommates, very compatible in terms of cleanliness, schedule, interests, and attitude towards the universe in general.

Both of us have stated unequivocally that we would live alone if we did not live together, and that our next roommates (respectively) will be boys with whom we share more than a kitchen. I am really, really easy to live with, but I’m also 32, and there’s just stress I don’t care to take on at this point, you know?

And as far as a day in Vancouver? That’s not long enough. But I would take someone on a whirlwind tour that would include Stanley Park, Commercial Drive, Denman St., and English Bay, and probably some end-of-the-night chillin’ with coffees at Whytecliffe Park in West Van. If I only had a day.

And anything else in the GENERAL AREA OF CANADA? Do you know how big Canada is, my dear? It’s HUGE. I haven’t even seen all of it. There’s a LOT I want to see, especially in the Maritimes, but for now, I would really love to see Whitehorse again — I haven’t been back up North since we lived there when I was little. And I’m also one of those freaks who actually likes the prairies (though I am too attached to the ocean to move at this point.)

Prairie sunsets are like crack.

6. From Samantha:

What do you crave doing, something that makes you feel so very you? What is something your soul cries out for at the end of a long day?

I think there’s an answer to both of these questions that would make my parents wince a little, and I’m single right now anyhow, so I’ll think of something else!

I love singing as a form of release, and also being in the water (preferably the ocean.) Those are probably the two things I love doing most besides writing and the other stuff I’m not talking about. I also love cooking, but that’s only fun if I have time and fresh, yummy ingredients. Otherwise, bring on the takeout, baby! And the singing. In the ocean. All at once. Preferably with one of these men:

YES!

7. From Catherine:

My question is… what up and coming movie are you most looking forward to coming out this summer?

And when are you going to answer all these questions?

RIGHT NOW.

And, as far as movies go? Hmmm. I DON’T WANT TO SEE MIAMI VICE. There. I just had to make that clear. Who remakes Miami Vice — a cheese classic — and tries to make it sexy by adding Colin Farrell? Colin Farrell is about as sexy as the guy in my high school who used to smell like old cigarettes and was constantly bragging about his conquests. You didn’t want to sit next to him for fear of the stink OR that he’d grope you!

And actually? Clerks 2? Nah. I think Kevin Smith isn’t all that funny anymore. Still cute, not funny. My Super Ex-Girlfriend? That’s about the dumbest premise on earth for a movie. Shame on you, Luke. And speaking of Wilson shaming, Owen! OWEN. You, Me, and Dupree? LAME. Not going to see it. Actually, what the hell? All the movies SUCK this summer. Well, okay. Either they suck, or they’re tearjerkers, like World Trade Center. So, I’m not really looking forward to any of them. I’m not a Disney girl, or a Wayans girl, or an M. Night girl, either.

Bah. Movies.

And that’s all the questions! Wasn’t that fun?